


Gameplay

by Marquise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Power Dynamics, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2015-02-08
Packaged: 2018-03-11 00:48:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3309506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All that was required was a little give and take.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gameplay

Her movements were fluttering things these days, as she had not quite settled into the skin that she was molding. Oh, she could manage well enough in some situations—making it so that his eyes never left her frame as they supped was a particular talent of hers—but she was still learning, and these skills lacked the continual smoothness that she knew she would need to grasp in order to really succeed.

Sansa never thought much about _why_ she wished to succeed at this. She knew, of course, that the benefit of having him under her sway would be great, but the _thrill_ she got from the idea was a more abstract thing, one that she did not wish to linger over for long.

As the days passed and winter grew closer and closer they continued to isolate themselves in the Vale, barred against the winds and the armies. A perfect practice ground, as if were, with Petyr a more than willing sparring partner. For the first time in a long time Sansa felt as if she was gaining something—no longer did she feel the constant chipping away at her soul that had formed so much of her existence.

All that was required was a little give and take.

And on this night she decided to push him as best she good, in order to see what she could extract from him with a perfect storm of allure. She came to him when the rest of the castle was still, all womanly curves, hair pinned tightly, jug of wine in hand, the softest of smiles across her lips.

Only her lips, and the way they trembled, said something of her nerves.

Petyr sat before the fire appraising her, and she should have known from the tilt of his mouth that he knew her game. Should have, but perhaps she was too wrapped up in her own plans to really work out what it was she was getting into.

“Come to bid me goodnight, sweetling?” With the curl of his fingers he drew her in. It was warmer the closer she got to him, as if she was descending to a great depth. The room smelled strongly of smoke and perfumes, a heady aroma that she could not quite place but that seemed indefinably _him_ , unquestionably sin.

She paused to breathe, the silk of her gown expanding and contracting, the light from the flames playing across her skirt as though it were a mirror. Her steps were soft on the rushes and she did not allow her eyes to drop from his for even a second.

Petyr’s grey-green gaze was glassy, which to her spoke of far too much wine. She did not allow her smile to hitch too much, though the knowledge that this would be quite easy indeed tugged at her.

But when she reached his side and his hand threaded through hers, rings cool against warm skin, and he pulled her into his lap with more strength than she anticipated, she began to realize that this might not be quite as simple as she had hoped. 

Their faces were inches apart, breath warm on skin. Sansa felt the flesh at the back of her neck prick, her body suppressing a full-shutter. All through her was the peculiar sensation of having _lost_.

Petyr reached out and pushed a tendril of hair behind her ear, his fingers tracing the line of her cheekbone. His skin was soft, much softer than any of the rough knights she had known, but she would not fool herself into thinking there was no power there.

“Such a pretty sight for an evening. And have you come to give me a kiss, my sweet daughter?” His words were not slurred. She should have known—ever since the night he spilled too much too fast, told her about Harrold and the North, he had been keeping himself in check. Strengthening his armor, as it were.

Sansa’s mouth parted, teeth resting on one full lip. She had not thought, really, about what she was to gain from this. Was her plan only to see him undone? That was something she much desired, though she was beginning to realize it might be harder to grasp than she anticipated. And despite herself she felt her heart clench, felt herself lean into his soft touch, allowed herself to be engulfed.

His arms were not safe. She had to keep that in mind, less her shield be lowered too much. And yet she found something like solace here, a respect in his movements that could not be completely forced. He wanted her and he wanted her well poised, well polished, and deadly. It was not something she was likely to find elsewhere. It was not something she had anticipated ever desiring, but so much had changed. Now she partook in his attentions like an overripe fruit, savoring every bite, trying not to let it stain her.

It was Petyr who closed the distance but it was Sansa who pressed in, who opened her mouth to take him, who moaned at the taste of wine and mint on his tongue, that flavor that would never quite leave her mouth. It was Sansa who writhed on his lap, garments too hot, itching for his touch in places she would dare not speak.

Petyr pulled back to rest his lips on her neck, nipping at the tender flesh there, his whole body a laugh—not _at_ her, per se, but merely one of amusement, one of triumph. “Such a sweet daughter I have, hmm?” His fingers traced the line of her stocking and then further, dancing along a knee, his breath shallow in her ear. Sansa’s words had left her, only little mews that could be pleas escaping from her mouth.

His fingers found her soon enough, tracing the silk of her smallclothes, groaning at the wetness that leaked through the garment. She lay splayed on his lap, her lips at his temple, trying to give something, trying to _gain_ , while he took more and more. 

His touch was nothing; it was a ghost. He brushed the sodden fabric and murmured his pleasure with a ashy laugh before pushing the last barrier aside.

He touched her where he never had before and her body stiffened, unused to such things, unsure. Petyr held her by the waist, fingers grazing a breast through the cloth, and urged her with sweet words to go closer and closer to abandonment.

Everything was done in whispers, the movement of her silks and the crack of the fire the only others sounds as he gave her pleasure. His movements were languid things, his lips nipping and words full of pride. Sansa was torn, her mind and body at odds, her stomach in knots, her limbs heavy, and her cheeks burning with something between shame and desire. 

She had not known that emotion until they had become entangled in this dance.

When her pleasure came it was like an exhale, a soft crack and a sigh that shook her whole frame, that caused her to sink even deeper into his lap. She had not realized the tension that had built up in her frame until it passed, until she shuddered like a wanton in his grasp.

Petyr held her there for a moment longer, his slick fingers continuing to play in her sodden smallclothes. He coaxed more and more shockwaves out of her, his own pleasure unmistakable against her bottom, until Sansa began to feel uncomfortable with sweat.

It was as if he knew. He released her, gently, helping her rise to her feet, his fingers wet when he took her hand.

“Goodnight, sweeting.” He said, his voice even, as though nothing had passed.

Sansa took her leave with a bow. He legs were shaky as she made her way back to her chambers, the fleeting smile of victory she had seen on his lips burned into her mind.

 

 


End file.
